THE first summer we were in
Picardy Place, 1818, we girls remained there protected by Miss Elphick
during the whole of it. When the fine weather came on in spring we had
resumed our excursions to Craigcrook, and it was then we got so intimate
with Basil Hall. We could not have been acquainted with him while we
lived in George Street, because he only returned from his Loo Choo
cruise late in the autumn of 1817. During the following winter we saw a
good deal of him both before he went to London, and after they had tried
to spoil him there, for he was made such a wonder of there, it was a
miracle his head kept steady; but it was at Craigcrook that we became
such friends. Cruel Lord Jeffrey limited his two young favourites to
friendship; he forbid any warmer feelings, closeting Jane in his pretty
cabinet, and under the shades of the wood on Corstorphine Hill, to
explain all the family particulars. And then Basil went off to sea.

The Jeffreys generally
went out on Friday evenings, or, at any rate, on Saturdays, to a late
dinner at Craigcrook, and came back to town on Monday morning, till the
12th of July released him from law labours. Jane and I frequently went
with them, sometimes for only one day, returning in the evening. We
never met any lady there but Mrs George Russell occasionally; a clever
woman, not to my mind agreeable. The men were John Murray, now and then
his elder brother, Tommy Thomson, Robert Graeme, Mr Fullerton till he
married, William Clerk very seldom, Mr Cockburn always, John Jeffrey,
the Moreheads now and then, chance celebrities, and a London friend at
intervals. It was not a big-wig set at all. My father, Lord Gillies, and
such-like dignitaries would have been quite out of place in this rather
riotous crew; indeed, the prevailing free-and-easy tone did not
altogether suit me. Individually, almost all of our party were
agreeable, cleverly amusing. Collectively, there was far too much
boisterous mirth for my taste. I preferred being with Mrs Jeffrey, that
naturally charming woman, not then by any means sufficiently appreciated
by those so much her inferiors. She and I spent our time gardening—she
was a perfect florist—playing with little Charlotte, to whom all my old
nursery tales and songs were new, preparing for the company, and
chattering to each other. My gentlemen friends were William Murray of
Henderland, and Robert Graeme of Lynedoch; they used to find Mrs Jeffrey
and me out when we were weeding our borders, and often carry us off up
the hill, Jane remaining queen of the bowling- green. How much she was
admired by all those clever heads!

The dinners were
delightful, so little form, so much fun, real wit sometimes, and always
cheerfulness; the windows open to the garden, the sight and the scent of
the flowers heightening the flavour of repasts unequalled for
excellence; wines, all our set were famous for having of the best and in
startling variety— it was a mania; their cellars and their books divided
the attention of the husband; the wife, alas! was more easily satisfied
with the cookery. Except in a real old-fashioned Scotch house, where no
dish was attempted that was not national, the various abominations
served up as corner dishes under French names were merely libels upon
housekeeping. Mrs Jeffrey presented nothing upon her table but what her
cook could dress; her home-fed fowl and home-made bread, and fine cream
and sweet butter, and juicy vegetables, all so good, served so well, the
hot things hot, the fruits cream, and butter so cold, gave such a
feeling of comfort every one got good-humoured, even cranky William
Clerk. They were bright days, those happy summer days at Craigcrook.

Another country house we
were very much in was one the Gibsons had a lease of, Woodside. It was
six miles from town, a good ride. We went out early, stayed all day, and
came back in the cool of the summer evening. They were kind people, the
father and mother very little in our way, the sons not much, the seven
daughters of all ages our great friends. Mrs Kaye and Jane drew most
together, Cecilia and I; the little ones were pets, and very pretty
ones.

In August my father and
mother and William went to the Highlands. Johnnie accompanied M.
L'Espinasse to France. The little monkey had a turn for languages, was
making good progress in French, so as a reward this pleasant trip was
arranged for him. We three young ladies were left to amuse ourselves and
Miss Elphick. We were so quiet, so orderly, so very correct in our whole
conduct during the absence of the heads of the family, that on their
return my father was addressed in the Parliament House by our opposite
neighbour, a writer who lived on a flat, a second storey, high enough
for good observation, and assured by him of the perfect propriety of our
behaviour.

In the early part of the
Edinburgh summers a good many very pleasant, quiet parties went on among
such of us as had to remain in town till the Courts rose in July. I
remember several agreeable dinners at this season at the Arbuthnots,
foreigners generally bringing their introductions about this time of
year. At the Brewsters they had foreigners sent to them too, and they
entertained them now, not in the flat where we first found them, but in
their own house in Athole Crescent newly built out of the profits of the
Kaleidoscope, a toy that was ridiculously the rage from its humble
beginning in the tin tube with a perforated card in the end, to the fine
brass instrument set on a stand, that was quite an ornament to the
drawing-room. Had Sir David managed matters well, this would have turned
out quite a fortune to him; he missed the moment and only made a few
thousand pounds; still they gave him ease, and that was a blessing. The
little dinners at his house were always pleasant. She was charming, and
they selected their guests so well and were so particularly agreeable
themselves, I don't remember anywhere passing more thoroughly enjoyable
evenings than at their house. He was then, and is still, not only among
the first of scientific men, but in manners and conversation utterly
delightful; no such favourite anywhere as Sir David Brewster, except at
home or with any one engaged with him in business; nobody ever had
dealings with him and escaped a quarrel. Whether he were ill, the brain
over-worked and the body thus over-weighted, or whether his wife did not
understand him, or did not know and exert herself, there is no saying.

I think it was about the
May or June of this year that old Mrs Siddons returned to the stage for
twelve nights to act for the benefit of her grandchildren. Henry Siddons
was dead, leaving his affairs in much perplexity. He had purchased the
theatre and never made it a paying concern, although his wife acted
perseveringly, and all the Kemble family came regularly and drew good
houses. His ordinary company was not good; he was a stick himself, and
he would keep the best parts for himself, and in every way managed
badly. She did better after his death; her clever brother William Murray
conducting affairs much more wisely for her, and certainly for himself
in the end, slow as she was in perceiving this. Some pressing debts,
however, required to be met, and Mrs Siddons came forward. We were all
great play-goers, often attending our own poor third-rates, Mrs Harry
redeeming all else in our eyes, and never missing the stars, John and
Charles Kemble, Young, Liston, Mathews, Miss Stephens, etc. But to see
the great queen again we had never dreamed of She had taken leave of the
stage before we left London. She was little changed, not at all in
appearance, neither had her voice suffered; the limbs were just hardly
stiffer, more slowly moved rather, therefore in the older characters she
was the finest, most natural; they suited her age. Queen Katherine she
took leave in. To my dying hour I shall never forget the trial scene;
the silver tone of her severely cold "My Lord Cardinal," and then on the
wrong one starting up, the scorn of her attitude, and the outraged
dignity of the voice in which she uttered "To You I speak." We were
breathless. Her sick-room was very fine too. Then her Lady Macbeth,
Volumnia, Constance—ah! no such acting since, for she was nature, on
stilts in her private life. "Bring me some beer, boy, and another
plate," is a true anecdote, blank verse and a tragic tone being her
daily wear.

Once when Liston was down
I longed to see him in Lubin Log; for some reason I could not manage it,
and Mrs Harry let me go to her private box. He had been Tony Lumpkin in
the play, and we were talking him over, waiting for his appearance in
the farce. "I have heard," said I, "of his giving a look with that queer
face of his, not uttering a word, yet sending people into convulsions of
laughter not to be checked whilst he remained in sight." "Hush," said
Mrs Harry, "here he comes." Lubin from the coach with all his
parcels. Between his first two inquiries for his "numbrella" and his
"'at," he threw up at our hidden box, at me, the look—perfectly
over-setting; there never could be such another grotesque expression of
fun since the days of fauns and satyrs, and when composure in a degree
returned, a sly twinkle of one squinting eye, or the buck tooth
interrupting a smile, or some indescribable secret sign of intelligence,
would reach us and set us off again. We were ill with laughing. He
played that whole farce to us, to Mrs Harry and me, and every one agreed
he had surpassed himself.

The early part of the
next summer, 1819, passed much in the same way as the one before;
sociable small parties among our friends in town, and visits to those in
the country; messages to the Abbey of course, and we were always the
messengers. My mother was very careful of the servants; Johnnie declared
that one extremely rainy day when it was proper the Newcastle Chronicle
should be returned to Mrs General Maxwell, my mother called out to him,
"Johnnie, my dear, I wish you would run to George Street with this; it's
such a dreadful day I don't like sending out poor Richard "—a colossus
of a footman, weighing heavier every day from having nothing to do. Poor
Johnnie! this very spring he maybe thought with regret of even Mrs
Maxwell's newspaper, for my father took him up to town and sent him to
Eton. They first paid a visit to the electors of Tavistock, and on their
way spent a day with Dugald Stewart, who lived then near the Duke of
Bedford's cottage at Endsleigh. The old philosopher predicted the boy's
future eminence, although we at home had not seen through his reserve.
He was idle, slow, quiet, passing as almost stupid beside his brilliant
brother. "Take care of that boy, Grant," said Dugald Stewart at their
parting; "he will make a great name for himself, or I am much mistaken."
And has he not? Quiet he has remained, indolent too, and eccentric, but
in his own field of action who is his parallel? My mother and I thought
of no honourable future when our pet left us. We watched him from the
window, stepping into the travelling chariot after my father in the new
greatcoat that had been made for him, the little tearful face not daring
to venture a last glance back to us. He was small of his age, and from
being the youngest he was childish. We did not see him for sixteen
months. He came back to us an Eton boy; how much those three small words
imply! My poor mother, I can understand now the sob with which she threw
herself back upon the sofa, exclaiming, "I have lost my Johnnie!" His
cousin John Frere went to Eton at the same time, and our John spent all
short holidays at Hampstead, only coming home to the Highlands once a
year in the summer. The two cousins remained attached friends ever, and
though widely separated, never lost sight of one another till poor John
Frere died.

General N- had returned
home very soon after his marriage to our dear Annie. They had settled
amidst his rich relations near Nottingham, who had all received her most
kindly. We heard from her constantly and were always planning to meet,
yet never managed it. My father had seen her with her two nice little
boys, and found her perfectly happy; her general no genius, but an
excellent man.

I cannot recollect much
else that is worthy of note before our little tour upon the Continent.
We set out in August, and were two months and a half away. My father was
not inclined for such a movement at all, it was probably very
inconvenient to the treasury, but my mother had so set her heart upon
it, he, as usual, good-naturedly gave way. Johnnie was to spend his
holidays with the Freres. Miss Elphick went to the Kirkman Finlays; her
parting was quite a dreadful scene, screams, convulsions, sobs,
hysterics. The poor woman was attached to some of us, and had of late
been much more agreeable to the rest; but she was a plague in the house,
did a deal of mischief, and was no guide, no help. She had been seven
years with us, so there was a chain of habit to loosen at any rate.

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